What even is a marriage if it can be ended in three words, and what is a law if it steps in after those words have already shattered a life?
The debate around triple talaq in India does not begin in courts or Parliament but in rupture. A sentence spoken, sometimes in anger, sometimes casually, sometimes over a phone call or message, and a woman’s legal, social, and economic identity collapses almost instantly. It’s hard to believe that is the lived reality that pushed the issue from private spaces into public confrontation, and eventually into cinema, into law, into the Constitution itself.
At its core, triple talaq, specifically talaq-e-biddat, allowed a Muslim man to divorce his wife instantly by pronouncing “talaq” three times. This form of divorce was controversial not just socially but legally, because it bypassed due process, reconciliation, and any structured protection for the woman. In India, this tension culminated in the landmark 2017 Supreme Court judgment (Shayara Bano case), where a 3–2 majority declared instant triple talaq unconstitutional, questioning whether it was even an essential part of Islamic practice.
That judgment is the legal shadow within which the movie Haq operates. The movie dramatizes a woman’s struggle against arbitrary divorce and her fight for maintenance and dignity, demonstrating real cases like Shah Bano. It frames the issue not as a theological debate but as a constitutional one, in which Articles 14, 15, and 21 (equality, non-discrimination, and dignity) take precedence over religious interpretation.
And that shift is crucial. Once the issue enters the Constitution, it stops being about belief alone and becomes about rights.
But the movie does something more subtle. It exposes how the law is not just about what is written, but also about who can access it. A woman abandoned through triple talaq may technically have legal remedies, but socially and economically, she often stands alone. Reports and commentary have repeatedly highlighted how such divorces leave women without financial security, forcing them into precarious survival.
So the question is not just whether triple talaq is wrong; it is whether the system around it is sufficient to correct that wrong.
In 2019, the Indian Parliament enacted the Muslim Women (Protection of Rights on Marriage) Act, which made instant triple talaq illegal and void, and more importantly, criminalized it. A man pronouncing triple talaq can face up to three years of imprisonment, along with fines, while the woman is entitled to maintenance and custody of minor children.
On paper, this appears decisive. The law does three things simultaneously: it invalidates the divorce, protects the woman’s rights, and punishes the act.
But this is where the debate deepens. Because criminalization changes the nature of the issue. What was once a civil matter within personal law becomes a criminal offence against the state. Critics, including legal scholars, have argued that treating a marital dispute as a criminal act may create unintended consequences, especially when imprisonment could destabilize the financial structure of the very family the law seeks to protect.
If the husband is jailed, who provides maintenance? If the marriage is already declared void, what exactly is being preserved through punishment?
Supporters of the Act argue that criminalization acts as a deterrent. Government data has suggested a significant reduction in triple talaq cases after the law’s implementation, presenting it as a tool of empowerment and protection.
But constitutional law is rarely about outcomes alone. It is about balance.
India’s Constitution protects religious freedom under Article 25, but only to the extent that practices do not violate fundamental rights. The Supreme Court’s reasoning in 2017 was precisely this: that instant triple talaq was arbitrary and therefore incompatible with constitutional guarantees of equality and dignity.
So constitutionally, the ban stands on firm ground.
And this is where the idea of “custody” becomes layered. Should triple talaq lead to custody in the sense of imprisonment, or should it remain within the domain of civil remedy, focused on compensation and protection rather than punishment?
There is no easy answer.
Because both positions are rooted in legitimate concerns. One fears misuse and over-criminalization; the other fears continued vulnerability of women if the law lacks teeth.
What “Haq” does, interestingly, is not resolve this debate, but I think, humanize it. It places law inside lived experience, showing that behind every constitutional principle is a person negotiating survival.
It asks a question that legislation alone cannot answer: what does justice feel like?
Because legality and justice are not always identical. A law can be valid and still feel incomplete. It can protect rights and yet fail to fully transform reality. Even after the ban, reports suggest that women continue to face abandonment and indirect forms of divorce, indicating that legal reform does not automatically erase social practice.
This is where the conversation becomes less about triple talaq alone and more about the limits of law itself. Law can prohibit, punish and compensate. But it cannot instantly rewire society.
And so the situation exists in a kind of unresolved tension. Triple talaq is unconstitutional, illegal, and criminalized. Yet the conditions that enabled it-patriarchal structures, economic dependency, social silence-persist in varying forms.
Which brings us back to the original question: Should it be taken into custody?
Perhaps the more precise question is: what exactly are we trying to contain-the act, the individual, or the system that made the act possible?
If custody is meant to deter, then the law has already taken that step. If it is meant to deliver justice, then the conversation is far from over. Because justice, unlike law, cannot be fully codified. It moves through courts, yes, but also through culture, through awareness, through the slow reshaping of norms.
And maybe that is where both the Constitution and cinema meet, forcing us to confront the gap between what is written and what is lived.
Let us know your thoughts. If you have burning thoughts or opinions to express, please feel free to reach out to us at larra@globalindiannetwork.com.
